Writing

I love to write.  No really.  I do.  (wasn't sure if you had picked that up or not).  LOVED writing research papers in English class and I spent many hours writing poetry.  Like this one from 9th grade (that would be 25 years ago):

Alone

You went away,

You left me there  -

All alone, 

Just me, my tears.

The bitterness,

We saw it come;

The angry words
From which we run.


The words that hurt
More than beatings will.
The reckless words,
The final kill.

But what we found -
It's hard to hide
From the coldness
At your side.


It's time to go on
For you and for me.
Complete destruction
Is what we achieved.

Don't look back -
You won't see me cry.
The coldness that shows
Hides my pain inside.


Is this what we wanted?
But now it's too late.
To go on alone -
That is our fate.

I know - I should have ended it after the second stanza.  What can I say?  I was a girl scorned.  (although, you could threaten to take away all of my chocolate and I still wouldn't be able to produce the name of the scorner!)  Ha!  Some of you out there may have been on the receiving end of some of my 'masterpieces!'  A few out there may have gotten an A for something that I wrote!

Well, I loved to write, until I had to do it for real.  And get paid for it.  And get criticized.  I can remember the specific moment that I decided that I wasn't a writer:  my boss said to me, "And why don't you try to write this piece...it will give you more experience and make you feel more comfortable with writing."  Um.  Why don't you just shoot my kneecaps.

I'm trying
I'm holding back
I'm hiding
I'm emerging
Conflicting
So me
So often


This is why I subject you all this this narcissistic blog.  I LOVE TO WRITE!  The hard part isn't writing it...it's holding back.

Sta Zitta

Please hit the "Shut Up" button on your remote. (bonus points if you can name the tv reference....)


I can't seem to stop talking.  I just blah blah blah blah blah blah all day long.  Especially when there is silence to fill.  Then I'm all blah blah blah my cat blah blah blah funny story about my dog blah blah blah Oh! Do you ever watch iCarly??


(Close it, and Zip it!)


I'm actually an intelligent woman...but when I keep blithering along, just filling up the holes of prolonged silence with my useless dither (well then, there aren't any holes now, are there?!), I come across as the biggest social misfit.  Maybe there is an island for me...


(I see your mouth moving and I hear words coming out but I just don't care what you have to say.)


I take no umbrage with the dazed glaze, the bored stare, the hostile glare.  I just keep babbling along.  The drool doesn't affect me nor does the occasional snore.  I just keep going.  Yadda yadda yadda.  Just nervous chatter. 


(Do you see the look on my face??? That's the look of "OMG shut up already")


I talk during hugging, during kissing, during sex.  There's really no way to shut me up.  Well.  Um...there's that.


(Pardon me, ma'am, but you have an unattractive excess of verbiage dribbling out of your face.)


I SAID VERBIAGE for goodness sake.


I'm shutting up now. 

TMI

In my world, if you and I become friends, I make you sign a contract that clearly states that nothing that comes out of my mouth is EVER TMI.  It covers MY ass and it saves you the embarrassment of thinking that I am CLEARLY off my rocker at times.  Because let's face it...sometimes I walk a VERY fine line!

I understand that not all of you reading this have taken the time to read the fine print.   So, I will allow you to jump ship at anytime our delicate blogger/bloggee relationship gets too...um...buddy-buddy...and...intimate for your less than prurient sensibilities. (so, I'm a few months late issuing this escape hatch...oops!)

The phrase "Let me slip into something more comfortable" came up in conversation the other day, believe it or not.  I was talking to a male friend of mine and he created (NOT for us, for pete's sake) this Fabio-on-the-cover-romance-novel-worthy-scenerio complete with bearskin rug, rose petals, strawberries and champagne (with the leading lady whispering the aforementioned phrase...) and while I was impressed at his attempt to describe his version of a seduction scene (that didn't involve beer, a TV remote and a Hawks game), I had to chuckle.  Something more comfortable?  Like other then my "I ♥ My Boys" t-shirt and yoga pants??  Oh, you mean I need to shed my comfy clothes and put on that latex corset with the thong panties and 5 inch hooker boots?  I'm right on that.  And last I heard, the Cubs were gonna win the World Series.

Let me tell you how it goes at my house.   Text:  Be over in 10.  Me:  K.  {for those of you playing along at home, that was foreplay}  10 minutes later: front door opens, followed by complete silence punctuated briefly by the groans of attempting to get out of my skinny jeans and a shriek as my foot steps on a Power Ranger Apezord (DO NOT call it a Monkeyzord).  13.385 minutes later:  complete silence after the front door is shut and re-locked.  15 minutes later:  groan of satisfaction as I plop on the couch in my holey AC/DC shirt and NU sweats.  15.8965 minutes later:  lost in the fascination that is prime time television.

What?  You think I can make this stuff up???

Yes, yes I can.  The rooms of my house have seen less action then Bernie Madoff's wife. I'd be in a world of hurt if it weren't for my imagination. (And the Energizer bunny.)

But let's pretend there is a moral, a lesson to be learned from my imaginative tale.  Should you ever get that "K" text from me (hypothetically, of course) you better come prepared with pliers.  I don't wear these jeans just because they make my legs look good; they're my something more comfortable.

Frenemies

Helllllooooooo Scale.  It's been a long time.  Not that I've missed you in the slightest.  However, I made a promise that I would visit you today, so being the upstanding citizen that I am....here I am.

How's about we make a deal.  You go easy on me and I'll refrain from throwing you out the window to be mowed over by the tow truck that lives three houses down. Or, take you back to the thrift store so that you can be bought by a family that has toddler quadruplrets that think you are a mini trampoline.

Don't tell anyone that I stripped for this...HEY!  You haven't installed a scale-cam, right?

Okay, deep breath...and I'm on.  Eyes closed...but it really can't be that bad.  After counting slowing to ten...in five different languages....I peek at the digital display.

AYE CARUMBA!

How in the world did 2.285714285714287 stones creep onto my body in the past three years?

Although, those gyros were sooo good.  And the Taco Bell Chalupas (I can't believe I waited so long to try one!)  Oh, and the pizza...the wine....hmmmmm.  I found out how fantastic food tastes...REAL food (aside from the Taco Bell!)  In the past three years, I've had THE BEST meals of my life...from kick ass edamame with this magical elixer made with off-the-hook pork sauce, to fried crawfish and an amazingly marbled steak. I've had the best home-made soups, fresh pasta salad with artichokes and fresh, sweet homemade bread.  I've tasted a cucumber Mojito and lots and lots of sushi.  Real ingredients and real food.  And really good times.  And really real pounds. 2.2857 blah blah blah stones.

You do the math.

boundaries

I blur the lines with my chiropractor.


Oh for Pete's sakes...from the get-go YOUR mind is in the gutter!  


I completely forget that he is my chiropractor and not my shrink.  Today, for example, was my last day of physical therapy (so THAT'S what I've been doing?!?!?)  and we had to do this debriefing/deprogramming thing.  He asked, "will you do your back exercises faithfully?"  'um, sure,' I said. He put down, "Patient will ignore her responsibility of doing her back exercises and will return to the hunched statue that she was 6 weeks ago."  SEE?!  He knows me so well!

I also had  to fill out this exit exam thing, without cheating.  It asked how much my lower back pain hampered my social life...I was looking for the answer that said, "social life?  what social life?"  I expected the Doc to say in his calming voice, "so, how does it really make you feel to be such a loser?' But really he said:  "Pain.  Where?  Mild, moderate or severe?"  I want him to fix my social skills and he is WAY too focused on fixing my posture and flexibility.

Right, My flexibility.  If you see above, there is no social life, so there is NO NEED for the increase in flexibility that I have dutifully attained.   Unless, of course, I want to join the circus as a contortionist...but I'm not so sure they are looking for the frumpy soccer mom for that role.  Or, say, I decide that I want to, I don't know, start to do yoga.  (REALLY? Shoot me now!)  But does it make me feel great that I KNOW that my legs will bend to a 135 degree angle when I am on my back??  You freaking betcha!!  It is stimulating to realize that I could probably do a back bend into a walkover thingy at the age of 39 (when I could never do it before??)  Absolutely!!! :)  But really, will that happen?  Not a chance!

Getting old sucks.  It happens stealthily...like a woman dressed all in black Armani about to key the car of the rotten bastard that is cheating on her.

There are signs, though, that you are getting a bit older.  Such as:

1.  Your 5-minute face now takes 30 minutes to do
2.  When filling the year of your birth in an online form, you need to scroll WAY down the dropdown menu
3.  Songs that you listened to in high school are now marketed as "Golden Oldies."
4.  Kids that you used to babysit are having kids
5.  You go to the chiropractor because, face it, as least it's a pair of male hands on you
6.  When you find yourself thinking that, I don't know, say, one of the guys in Big Time Rush is cute, you immediately go to their IMDb page to make sure they are legal
7.  You've said to your teenager, "When I was your age..."
8.  A wild weekend is trying to stay up for the monologue on SNL.
9.  Sleeping in is turning off the alarm and waking up at 6:15.
10.  Your kindergartner knows more than you do.  Or so it seems.
11.  If you're single, the only 'guys' that you're comfortable being naked with need alkaline to rev them up.